


the cold is changing us inside

by scullyseviltwin



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: M/M, Snow Day, a lot of mentions of specific New England nonsense because I am trash, and being overwhelmed, eighteen year olds just trying to figure it out, first-time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 19:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21433393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: If Richie has to hear about the Blizzard of ‘78 one more time, he’s going to lose his fucking shit, really.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 59
Kudos: 527
Collections: It Faves





	the cold is changing us inside

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is related to the photostrip I reference in my fic [In Our Bones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21047840) but can absolutely be read as a standalone. 
> 
> WARNING: Eddie and Richie are 18 in this fic; if it's not your bag, I urge you to please not read this piece. 
> 
> Title taken from "Come Under the Covers" by Walk the Moon.

If Richie has to hear about the Blizzard of ‘78 one more time, he’s going to lose his fucking shit, really. Why is it that every time there’s even a hint of a blizzard —and this is New England, so that’s a constant threat from November to March—everyone loses their minds, rushes to the grocery store, cleans them out of milk and bread.

Part of being a New Englander is being hardened to the point you’re supposed to be able to deal with shit like this. So he’ll have to shovel for a couple of extra hours, so what? They’ve got at least through Thursday off of school and Richie has a decent stash of comic books he’s been meaning to get through. He hasn’t had the time for anything, lately: his AP English class has been kicking the shit out of him, and if he never has to see  _ Beowulf _ again it’ll be too fucking soon. 

But he’s got three days, three whole days of  _ nothing _ ahead and it feels positively glorious. 

He’s busying himself with making a grilled cheese sandwich—and dancing, badly—when his mother calls him from the den. “Hon, Eddie is on the phone”

The spatula clatters as he abandons his food and bounds down the hall, snatching the receiver from his mother’s hand. “Hello darling,” he drawls and glances down at his mother who just rolls her eyes and continues her perusal of the latest  _ National Geographic _ .

“God, why do I associate myself with you?” Eddie greets him, but Richie can hear the smile in his voice.

Richie slides his gaze back to his mother; she’s never been one to snoop, but Richie doesn’t want to rock the boat. “Oh please, you love it.”

“Nah, really don’t,” he gets in return. Richie can hear him crunching something on the other end of the phone. “You see we’re off until at least Thursday?”

“I did,” Richie smiles. “Probably won’t accumulate, as usual, but they can’t take it back!”

“They can not,” Eddie confirms sounding scholarly and final.

The smile that curls Richie’s lips is sweet and warm; an idea sparks in his mind, something so incredibly brilliant that Richie pats himself mentally on the back. Three whole days, three whole days off of school. “So what’s the deal, you wanna come over?”

“We talking snow day sleepover?” He sounds excited, following Richie’s train of thought. Not that anyone  _ wouldn’t  _ be excited for a snow day, but being out of school until Thursday means that if they  _ do _ get the amount of snow that Al Kaprielian is predicting, Eddie’s mother won’t want him to be outside “in such weather.” An if he’s already at Richie’s house that would mean three uninterrupted days of Eddie time, all to himself.   


  
Eddie in his home, Eddie showering just down the hall, Eddie eating _ nine meals _ with Richie and his family. 

The excitement he feels isn’t tempered when he acknowledges that he’s so overwhelmingly excited because he kind of wants to play house. With Eddie.

He and Eddie, playing house sounds so _ nice _ .

It’s domestic and maybe it’s a bit silly, but Richie can’t think of anything better than waking up with Eddie, making pancakes, rewatching _ Beetlejuice _ on the VHS in the basement, cuddling under a blanket. 

And maybe, if he’s extremely lucky, a little more than cuddling. 

His parents are good about giving him space, and they usually never come down to the basement when he’s hanging with friends.

Which is for the best because his parents really don’t need to know that Eddie isn’t  _ just _ a friend. 

Richie can picture it now: popcorn between them as they both do that thing where they hold out to see who will make the first move. Like they always do, a little game before they get hot and heavy. Richie likes to think it makes it all the more sweeter, but Eddie is just a sadist, and likes seeing Richie squirm.

God, it’s going to be so, so good. 

“Indeed we are, Edward,” Richie says and then drums his fingers atop his mother’s head. She looks up, mildly interested, and when Richie mouths “ _ Can Eddie sleep over? _ ” she smiles and rolls her eyes, mouths back “ _ Of course _ .” 

  
  
“Want me to come and grab you?”

“You mind? I know it’s not far, but it’s really friggin’ cold-”

“No, it’s like two degrees, and chivalry isn’t dead, my good chap! Let me go destroy this sandwich and I’ll be by.”

“Sandwich?” Eddie says, interested.

“Grilled cheese, with tomato, in a buttered pan. Put a little mayo on the bread? I’m a fucking culinary genius.”

“Language,” Maggie reminds him, but there’s no heat in it. 

“Sorry, ma,” he concedes. “I’ll make you one when you get here, honey _ bunch _ . See you in, uh, twenty?” God, Richie is lucky he’s been a lovesick asshole for most of his teenaged years, otherwise it’d be really fucking hard to hide how sweet he is on Eddie. He’s acted like this their entire lives, in front of everyone he knows, so there’s  _ nothing to see here move along _ . 

“Should I bother with my sleeping bag?” Eddie asks, voice low and secret and it sends a shiver down Richie’s spine.

“What a stupid question,” Richie replies immediately. “Of course not.”

Richie finishes his sandwich, shoves it into his mouth twice as fast as he normally would, and snatches his keys.

“Need anything while I’m out?” he asks of his mother, mouth full, crumbs spraying onto the hallway carpet. 

Maggie just shakes her head at his unmannerly nature and primly marks her place in  _ National Geographic _ with an index finger. “Can you stop at Swanson’s and grab some milk? And don’t give me the bit about the “bread and milk and eggs” again,” she sighs, but she’s smiling. “There’s a twenty in my purse.”

Richie sees the opportunity and he takes it. How can he not? “Can I grab a few things too?”

Maggie blinks at him, “You’re going to push it? Really?”

“C’mon, ma, my paycheck goes literally nowhere. I used it all on my new coat,” Richie tugs at his lapel and sulks dramatically, but can’t keep the smile off of his face. He even bats his eyes for good measure. “I wanna show Eddie a good time.”

Maggie laughs, startled, at his turn of phrase. “That doesn’t mean what you think it means,” except that it does. It absolutely does.

Richie pads into the den, head hung low, looking like a kicked puppy. He knows he’s gotten his way when his mother gives him an amused, exasperated sigh. “Please?”

“Fine,” she thwacks him with her magazine. “But you’re both shovelling tomorrow.”

Richie grabs his arm where she’s hit him and feigns brief injury, before dipping to drop a kiss on her cheek. “You’re the best! Maybe I’ll swing by the packie, too, grab some Allen’s, see where the night takes me.”

“You wish,” Maggie says, already focused back on her magazine. 

Richie rushes down the front walk over the crunchy remnants of salt from the last storm. It takes him a moment to get his key in the door and unlock the damn thing because holy shit, it really is two degrees out. He has to work at the ignition for the engine to turn over and Richie sits there for a moment, letting the interior warm. Eddie hates the cold (the heat, too), and it’s only a three minute drive to his house so Richie sits with some very staticy Nirvana fighting its way through the speakers.

Well.

Maybe the storm _ is _ going to be that bad. WCYY usually comes in pretty clear in Derry.

When Nirvana segues to Radiohead, Richie throws the Volkswagen into drive and heads out on a route that he could maneuver with his eyes closed. Three blocks north, two blocks left. Three stop signs, and swerve around the giant pothole on Stevenson Avenue and he’s at Eddie’s house. 

He doesn’t bother beeping, just waits in the idling car with his hands pressed between his thighs for warmth. Richie is only left hanging for a few minutes before Eddie comes bursting from his front door, scarf wrapped so far up on his face, Richie isn’t sure he’s able to see a goddamned thing.

Richie springs from the car, jogs around front and to the passenger door, which he whips open. “Your chariot, my prince.”

“You’re such a fucking weirdo,” Eddie says, but he’s blushing. “Thank you.”

  
  
Richie really likes pulling stunts like this for Eddie, holding the door for him, pulling out his chair in the lunchroom, stupid chivalric shit that can absolutely be played off as a joke but very much isn’t. It feels secret and sweet, something physical that’s a reminder to Eddie that Riche cares about him. If anyone called him on it, he’d swear against it, but, Richie just likes doing stupid, little nice things for Eddie, full stop. 

“‘’A course,” and once Eddie is comfortably seated, Richie shuts the door and weaves back around. 

The wind is starting to pick up, and the last of the reception is dashed away, leaving them with lush, rolling static. “Holy shit, maybe it is going to get bad.”

“Sounds like it. Hey, we gotta stop by the store for a sec. Grab some milk and shit. Also, my mother has conscripted us both to shovel tomorrow for the sweet, sweet eighteen bucks she let me have.”

Eddie busies himself with kicking the salt from his boots against the floor mat. “Ugh, really? For eighteen bucks? Not worth it.”

“Fine, no Shark Bites for you, Eduardo.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, slapping off the radio, knowing full well that Richie has a whole drawer in his desk that contains packets of Shark Bites just for Eddie.

“No, fuck _ you _ ,” Richie laughs and reaches over, grabs Eddie’s hand in his. Richie tugs and tugs until Eddie laughs too and goes lax, bringing his hand up for a kiss across the back of his hand. “Missed you.”

“It’s been thirty-six hours,” Eddie says, but his voice is soft in that way that makes Richie’s stomach flip.

“Exactly, thirty-six hours, Eds. Eons. Eras. Lifetimes!” The scary thing is, he means it. Hours spent without Eddie are boring and lonely. And it’s not that he’s codependent, he figures he’s just really, really fucking into Eddie. He wonders if other people are this into someone, at seventeen, or if he’s the only lucky motherfucker in the world.

Because that’s the way he feels when he’s around Eddie, like the one person in all the world who gets to feel  _ this _ happy. 

It’s the best.  
  
  


Eddie tugs his hand away but he’s laughing. He busies himself with finding a tape to shove into the deck; they end up riding the rest of the way to the store with a Pearl Jam blaring. 

They grab the milk and bicker about whether 3D Doritos should be purchased in lieu of the regular kind. Richie hates sour cream and onion Ruffles but Eddie loves them, so they get that and a frozen pizza. They receive a quarter back after they pay for all of the food and Richie reaches over and drops it into Eddie’s pocket. “For your troubles.”

Eddie blinks at him warningly. “Dude,” he says, under his breath, making Richie instantly on edge.

The cashier is looking at them suspiciously, his eyes dropping to the fingers that Richie has tucked inside Eddie’s pocket. Richie pulls back quickly, tips an imaginary cap to the acne-ridden idiot behind the counter and grabs the grocery bags before turning and walking hastily out of the store, Eddie hot on his heels. 

Sometimes he forgets, when he’s around Eddie, when they’re carefree and happy but…

God, he fucking hates this place, having to keep watch of himself at all times, make sure that he’s riding the straight and narrow, emphasis on straight. Richie hates that he can’t look at Eddie the way he wants to, can’t hold his hand, can’t ask him to the Spring dance because they’re both dudes. He hates that they can’t tell anyone that they’re dating. 

  
  
And he’d probably hate how soft and unguarded Eddie makes him too, like some dumb, lovesick idiot, if he didn’t like how it made him _ feel  _ so fucking much. 

Bags swinging at his side, Richie thinks about that.

Bigger than his  _ body _ , that’s how Eddie makes him feel. He makes Richie feel like maybe this town isn’t all there is, that there are other places, better places, where they might belong. Eddie makes Richie feel right, and good.

He thinks about the first time Eddie had kissed him.

It had been Eddie’s birthday and Richie had saved up enough from his paper route to take him to the movies and to lunch and have plenty left over for the pristine condition X-Men Eddie had been talking about for weeks. Richie had felt on top of the world, had wanted so badly to reach for Eddie’s hand on the walk into the theater.

And he’d had the brilliant idea to cram them both into the photo booth, as it had clearly been an occasion to commemorate, Eddie prior to having his entire life altered by _ Wayne’s World _ .

As he’d pulled the crisp dollar bills from his wallet he realized how close Eddie was to him on the little bench, how their hips pressed together. The countdown had begun and Richie couldn’t help touching, couldn’t help himself as he pressed his fingers to Eddie’s face and felt so much, so much that he felt it in his fucking  _ hair _ . 

And then Eddie had kissed him.

Eddie kissed  _ him _ .

Just a quick press of lips against Richie’s and Richie had very nearly blown apart with how desperately his heart had thumped in his chest, so nervous about what it all meant. His entire world shifted, endless possibilities he’d never allowed himself to entertain had vied for dominance at the forefront of his mind. 

  
  
When the photostrip had been spit out, Richie fought the urge to grab it and keep it forever, keep it against his body, under his shirt, over his heart. But he’d been brave, and they’d stolen away to the alley, and asked Eddie back to his house.   
  
  


Richie had gone all in on trying to make himself _ like _ like girls earlier that year, had made out with his fair share of girls at basement parties. But kissing Eddie was a revelation, it lit every bit of him up. Kissing Eddie had been a dream come true, something he’d imagined thousands of times, but had been positively sure would never, _ ever _ happen.

_ Don’t touch the other boys, Richie. _

But Eddie was the one touching  _ him _ , Eddie was the one making needy, breathy little noises as they lay side by side in Richie’s bed, kissing and kissing and kissing.    
  
  


Even now, he gets tripped up in it, almost walks into a light pole because he’s so caught up in remembering what Eddie’s eyes had looked like when he’d leaned in, inside of that photobooth. 

He’s ahead of Eddie, his long legs carrying him back towards the car, and Eddie jogs to keep up.

“Yeah maybe not, next time?” Eddie calls out as Richie unlocks the passenger side for him. “Would rather not get the shit kicked out of me.”

“But you’re just so damn cute, can’t help myself,” Richie says as he clambers in and tosses on his seatbelt; he’s a touch more reserved than he’d normally be, he realizes, and he hates, hates, hates it. Because tonight had been going so nicely. And because Eddie’s right, he’s really got to be more careful.   
  
  
  
But Eddie doesn’t seem phased by it, just tugs down on the sides of his hat and sniffles. Cheeks pink, shoulders hunched to his ears, Richie wills away the shittiness that threatens to leech through his mind. “‘Sides, I would have defended your honor,” he jokes.

Eddie huffs, “He would have destroyed you.”

The transmission grinds as Richie shifts gears and peels out of the parking lot. “Hey, you’re not with me because of my brute strength.”

“Remind me again why I  _ am _ with you,” but Eddie reaches over and squeezes Richie’s bicep because Eddie is with him because Eddie wants to be with him like this, too. 

What a fucking world. 

They’re quiet on the ride back to Richie’s, R.E.M. filling the space between them, Eddie sings along, under his breath and Richie allows himself to be lulled by it, the last of his bad vibes ebbing away. He’s got seventy-two hours of being around his favorite person in the world ahead of him, so. Fuck that cashier and fuck Derry.

It deserves to get buried under two feet of snow. 

The snow has started by the time they get back to Richie’s house, whipping sideways across their field of vision; the flakes are tiny but they’re brutal when they slice against Richie’s skin. It’s that type of snow that’s misleading, that sends drifts straight up to the second floor windows if given the chance and the right gusts off of the Atlantic. 

The wind almost takes Eddie’s small body down with its ferocity. Richie laughs and Eddie tells him to “fucking fuck off” and they shove at one another until they get into the house. They tumble through the front door, calling one another an asswipe, until Wentworth Tozier interrupts to snag the bags of groceries out of Richie’s hands. 

“It bad yet?” he asks, not bothering to even glance outside, as he plucks the milk from the bag and hands the remains to Eddie.

“Getting there,” Richie says, shirking off his parka. “And the wind is a bitch.”

Went rolls his eyes and murmurs a half-hearted “Language,” and “Nice to see you as always, Eddie,” and leaves them. 

Richie grabs Eddie’s duffle so that he can take off his jacket and boots and then they mount the stairs. They dump Eddie’s stuff onto Richie’s bed and Eddie goes about pulling out his things, setting them neatly atop Richie’s desk. Richie has witnessed this display countless times, Eddie’s Sleepover Ritual. He reclines atop his bed and watches as his guy goes about settling himself into his room. 

That turns his insides warm, the thought that Eddie lives in the same spaces that Richie does, that Eddie is comfortable enough to allow their lives to bleed into one another. The first time Riche had found one of Eddie’s socks he’d freaked out, not knowing if feeling overjoyed about it was the right tack to take. 

He settles a textbook atop a notebook, squaring the corners perfectly together. “I brought my physics stuff with me, if you want to work on that project.”

“You want to do homework… on a snow day…” Richie pretends like it doesn’t compute, is thrilled when the little dart appears between Eddie’s brows.

Eddie continues unpacking. “Hey, some of us don’t just naturally have brains. I don’t know what a fucking vector is and I’m not leaving this shit until the last minute like you always do.”

“It’s pretty simple Eds, a vectors have both direction and magnitude. They-” is as far as he gets before a sweatshirt is flung, hard, at his face. “You little bitch, yeah we can work on the project at some point if you wanna.”

Eddie turns to face him, his face doing something funny, “Thank you.”

Richie wants to unpack that look, soft and a touch scared. It makes Eddie look twelve again, and he wants to know what’s put that on his face. But then Eddie turns back around and hooks his empty duffle over the back of Richie’s desk chair, finished with the task at hand. 

Levering himself to his feet, Richie bounds across the bedroom, plants a quick kiss on Eddie’s upturned mouth and then tugs him out of the room. They end up back in the kitchen, Richie making good on his promise of a sandwich. He slips seamlessly into an exaggerated Italian accent and narrates his cooking process, smashing the sandwich down until cheese oozes out the sides.

“Is this offensive?” Eddie asks, chin in the palm of his hand as he watches on with an amused smile. His guy, in his kitchen, while Richie cooks for him; yeah, this is definitely playing house, and yeah, they haven’t done much but Richie thinks that he might be good at it.

What the actual hell?

“I feel like you’re being offensive...” Eddie drawls.

Richie just shrugs and flips the sandwich expertly to Eddie’s underwhelmed applause. They sit at the table together as Eddie eats, and Richie steals a bite here and there, even as hands try to slap him away. It’s boring and lazy and he doesn’t have one, single complaint.   


  
  
They end up playing two games of Clue with Richie’s parents—Richie is  _ always _ Ms. Scarlet because he likes doing a coquettish voice and Eddie is  _ always _ Colonel Mustard because he thinks the military history is dignified—and Maggie makes them all cocoa, using the fancy stuff, and real marshmallows. By the time they make it back to Richie’s bedroom they’re both full and sleepy.

Wind lashes against the windows, grainy against the glass, sounding like sand. Eddie yawns, stretches, and a sliver of his stomach peeks between the edge of his sweatshirt and his jeans, and Richie just wants to  _ die _ . 

This is the thing: Eddie makes him feel everything, all at once, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He wants to touch Eddie, but also wants to keep him safe, tucked away where no one can touch him, even himself. He wants to know what Eddie feels like moving against him, but he never, ever wants to know, because if he knows, then that’s it; he’ll never be able to let Eddie go. It’s terrifying, and simultaneously the only thing Richie feels he’s ever wanted. Eddie is responsible for every insane, juxtaposing thought he’s had in the past four years and it’s maddening.

After another yawn, Eddie drops his arms and smiles sleepily at him, and Richie is throttled from his messy tangle of thoughts. 

It’s not even that late, Richie realizes, just past eleven. If he’d been at any of the other Losers’ homes, he’d probably press to stay up later; it is a sleepover after all and they have absolutely nowhere to be tomorrow. But right now, all he really wants to do is snuggle up to Eddie—not make out, not fool around—just snuggle. He’s such a fucking sap, but whatever. 

The wind rattles the storm windows and they both turn their attention to the white whipping by outside. “Okay, so, shoveling that is going to suck,” Eddie says and picks up his neatly-folded pajamas. It’s like he’s read Richie’s mind and Richie is so glad; he’s not sure he could put voice to his softer thoughts at the moment. Sometimes asking for what he wants is hard, but Eddie knows him pretty damn well.

“I’m gonna brush my teeth and change,” he says quietly and slips out of Richie’s room on hushed feet.

Richie tosses on a thin pair of flannel pants and his most comfortable waffle shirt and follows Eddie’s lead. They brush their teeth together, side-by-side and it’s stupid how much they smile at one another in the mirror, toothpaste suds dripping off of their chins.

Eddie hops on Richie’s back as he shuts the light in the bathroom, and Richie calls him an asshole, but carries him down the hall, back to his bedroom. They add an extra two pillows to the bed and a quilt and clamber in, Richie always on the side closest to the window; Eddie sleeps cold and he sleeps hot and it’s weird how pleased he is every time he thinks about that fact, that they compliment each other so well.

“I know we said we’d stay up but-”

“Nah,” Richie says sleepily and settles down against his pillow, “It’s okay, we’ve got time.”

“Just so tired,” Eddie complains and hikes the quilt up over his shoulder.  
  
  
  
There’s plenty of room, but Eddie slides right up next to him, warm and pliant.   
  


  
Richie had had a growth spurt when he was fifteen and shot up to five-foot-eleven and his parents had bought him a full-sized bed. It’s bigger than he needs alone, but it’s perfect for two. They always spread out one of Richie’s sleeping bags on the floor and toss a pillow down so that if Maggie or Wentworth come by, at least it looks like they were making an effort. 

Not that his parents have ever cared, but still. 

Richie thinks about that sometimes, about what his parents would think if they knew that he liked guys. Well, that he liked  _ one _ guy. Though even outside of that, he’s ninety-nine percent certain that he likes dudes exclusively.   
  
  
  
Richie really has no idea how they would react, and it makes him feel a wave of sadness, of guilt that’s oily and uncomfortable. It’s obvious in everything they do that his parents love him and want him to be happy; he’s super fucking lucky. But, this is still Maine—this is still  _ Derry _ —and to think that where they are wouldn’t have an effect on someone’s views on being gay would be insane. Totally fucking nutballs.  
  
  
  
Richie tries to distance himself from the idea, thinks about it in a detached, gauzy way, because spending too much time ruminating on it makes him feel itchy and manic. 

He forces it from his mind and instead focuses on the steady evening out of Eddie’s breath. He winds an arm carefully around his middle and slides his chest along his back. They’ll stray from one another in the night, but Richie prefers falling asleep like this, his palm pressed to Eddie’s chest, tracking his breathing as he drops off.

When Richie wakes in the morning, Eddie is still beside him on his stomach, his hair all askew Richie’s new  _ X-Men _ laid out on his pillow.

“Hey jerk,” Richie yawns, pressing his palm to the small of Eddie’s back; Eddie shivers. “Wanted to read that together.”

“Dude, it’s like eight. You snooze, you literally lose,” Eddie says lazily and flips a page. 

Richie grumbles and presses his face back to into the pillow; Eddie chuckles and briefly scratches his blunt nails over Richie’s scalp as he stretches out his spine and roots around in the sheets for his glasses.

When he shoves them on his face, he glances out the window, noting that the snow has slowed considerably, but that means jack-all in a Nor’easter and he groans again, remembering that he’s going to have to go out and shovel that.   
  


Richie punches Eddie lightly in the shoulder and then clambers over him and Eddie squeaks a “Watch it!” as he tries to shove him off.

He meanders down the hall to the bathroom and sleepily performs his morning ablutions. When he returns to the bedroom, Eddie is pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt. The sweatshirt is Richie’s—an old drama club relic from freshman year—and seeing him standing there in it as he decides which pair of socks to pull on is doing very strange things to Richie’s heart. 

“Stole your sweatshirt,” Eddie says, not bothering to look up from his weighing the green and black L.L. Beans. 

“Looks good on you,” Richie manages, strangled and then realizes how he sounds, and pulls a face. Eddie looks up at him, amused and a bit bewildered. “I mean, uh, it’d look much better on my floor?”

“Weak,” Eddie says, opting to tug on the black socks. “I told your mom I’d make pancakes,” he says as he passes Richie, en route to the door. Eddie drops a quick little peck on his mouth and Richie catches him around the waist, makes him stay, deepens it.

His hands slip right into the back pockets of Eddie’s jeans and they sway into the kiss, keeping it just this side of decent, until Eddie smacks him in the chest and struggles out of his grip. “Your mom is going to come back and check on me. Maggie waits for no chocolate banana pancakes,” Eddie chastises, but reaches around to smack Richie’s ass. “C’mon.”

Eddie makes Richie crack the eggs, because  _ salmonella _ , but Eddie takes it from there, looking absolutely in the zone as he measures out flour from a recipe he’s memorized by now. It’s their thing; when Eddie sleeps over, he usually makes pancakes. He’s getting good at the apple bran ones, but the banana chocolate are a family favorite. 

When Maggie slips Wentworth’s apron over Eddie’s head, Richie almost loses his shit. It’s down past his knees, partly because his father is tall and partly because Eddie is short and he looks so fucking cute in it, like he’s playing dress up.

“Ma, come on, not dad’s apron! Give him yours!” Richie’s already stolen it off the the peg on the back of the basement door and is plucking the cavernous one from Eddie’s body, replacing it with Maggie’s ruffled, floral apron. “Suits yah better, Spagheds.”  
  
  
  
Eddie smacks him on the back of the head and returns to meting out the batter, his tongue stuck between his teeth in concentration. 

And that’s what does it.

That little tiny tip of Eddie’s pink tongue, and the look of absolute and utter reverence for the task at hand, standing in his kitchen in his mother’s apron. 

Holy  _ fuck _ , that’s what does it.

Richie is finally able to name the too-bright miasma that’s always threatening to rip through his chest when he’s with Eddie. Fuck a duck. Fuck a whole fucking gaggle of fucking ducks. Shitting shitballs, he’s in love. 

The knowledge hits him like a mack truck going ninety and he stumbles back, away from Eddie, and then he has three sets of concerned eyes on him. “You okay, bud?” Went asks, glancing up from last Sunday’s crossword.

“Super great-good, fine and fancy, pops,” Richie chimes but feels none of the false bubbliness he infuses into his tone. 

He’s not bubbly, he’s not happy, because what in the hell does he do with this information. He can’t hide it from Eddie, not for long, Eddie can read him like a goddamned book.   
  
  
  
But if he tells Eddie about his revelation that’s going to be  _ way _ too big. Too much. Too huge. Too everything. What would he even say and how the hell would he say it? Better to keep that shit locked tight; no need to rock the boat. No need to ruin the Grade A Good Thing they have going.   
  
  
  
“Extra chips in mine, Eds,” he murmurs as he escapes the kitchen and locks himself in the small half-bath in the hallway.   
  


He proceeds to hyperventilate into a decorative hand towel for the next five minutes as every possible terrible outcome filters through his mind. He’s used to this, the anxiety that is notched up to eleven in him when anything threatens his even keel; it’s been with him since he was a child, before the showdown with the fucknut clown. Associated with his attention disorder or some shit, but right now, it’s so bad that he knows that if he can’t get it under control, Eddie’s going to know something is up.

Hell, his  _ parents _ are going to know something is up.

He breathes, in for a count of four, holds for a count of four and out for a count of four, head tilted down towards the sink just in case he has to ralph. 

It’s not out of the realm of possibility.   
  
  
  
Richie gets through twenty-seven rounds of breath before he feels confident enough to stand without shaking, though he still collapses onto the toilet lid and sinks his head into his hands. 

He kind of feels like he might start crying—and why not, nothing’s ever easy is it—when there’s a sharp rap against the door; the sound makes him startle so badly that he falls off of the toilet. “Hey asshole, you good?” Eddie calls, what he’s saying incongruous with his soft tone.

Richie swallows thickly, takes another breath and says, “Jeez man, you gotta interrupt a guy when he’s taking a deuce.”

“You’re gross,” Eddie grumbles.

“Who’s the one talking to me when I’m on the toilet?” he cracks. 

Once he hears Eddie pad away, Richie stands and looks at himself in the mirror, hard. He’s hidden so much, for so long; he’s trained for this shit. There’s no reason that he can’t get a handle on the fact that he’s in love with his best-friend-who-is-also-his-secret-boyfriend and continue on like everything’s peachy keen. He can do this, just needs to shove it down, hard, and not think about it anytime he’s ever around Eddie at all.

Simple enough.   
  
  
  
When he opens the door, he’s met with the warm aromas of chocolate and banana. His stomach feels slick and oily, but he knows that if he doesn’t eat breakfast, Eddie will be hounding him for ages about not wanting to eat his cooking. And, Eddie’s pancakes are really fucking good; he shouldn’t use this whole being in love thing as an excuse not to enjoy breakfast. 

At the table, Eddie is sipping coffee and Richie can’t help ragging on him as he takes a seat in front of a stack of fluffy flapjacks. “You’re gonna give him coffee? Really guys he’s a rabid chipmunk as is, this is gonna have him on overdrive.”

“Better to shovel with,” Eddie says back, the “dick,” low enough that only Richie hears. Eddie pours a healthy serving of syrup over Richie’s already-sugary plate. “Eat up, you’re a growing boy.”

Okay, how the hell is he supposed to hide his love for this idiot when he does shit like that?   
  
  
  
It’s painfully domestic, the four of them sitting around the table that Richie allows himself to fall back into his softer thoughts. What would it be like, sitting at this table with his parents, if he told them that Eddie is his boyfriend? What would it be like, sitting here with the person he loves, and his parents, and have nothing to hide?

“Y’okay?” Eddie asks, snapping Richie back to the present. “You’re barely eating.”

“”M good,” he says and immediately shoves a forkful of pancake into his mouth, grinning maniacally around it. He polishes off a stack of six before he feels too full to walk and says as much aloud.

“That’s really too bad,” Went says, rising from his seat to get another cup of coffee. “Because there’s a four car driveway that needs your attention.”

“Shit,” Richie says, remembering, and Eddie smacks him in the center of his chest. 

“There’s twenty dollars in it,” Maggie says kindly, clearing the plates. “For each of you.”

“Ooh, twenty whole dollars!” Richie coos mockingly. “Why I’ll be able to-”

Eddie smacks him again, in the same place. Richie swear he’ll be able to feel his traitorous heart beating through his sweatshirt. “Shut the hell up, jesus. Thank you, Maggie,” Eddie says, so politely, so sweetly, god fucking damn it. “But you really don’t have to do that.”

It’s Richie’s turn to smack Eddie. “ _ You _ shut the hell up! That’s really nice of you ma, thank you, blah, blah, blah, we’re going now, no takesies backsies!”

“Thanks for the pancakes, Eddie!” she calls after them as Richie tugs him from the room.

“Any time!” he calls back and allows himself to be led, Richie’s fingers clamped purposefully against his wrist. “I can’t believe you’re taking money from your mother to shovel a driveway, what are you, five?”

“Need that cash, darlin’. How’m I expected to take you out and treat you nice if I’m broke?”

Eddie grinds to a stop in the middle of the hallway and Richie pulls up short. “You ever going to make good on that?”

“Huh?” Richie’s not following, but he doesn’t hold it against himself, his brain has already been through the ringer today and it’s not even ten yet. 

Eddie’s mouth does a weird thing and then he shrugs, “Nevermind.”

“No, what is it?”

Eddie shrugs again, “I just… hate that we can’t like, go on a real date. Go out to dinner, or whatever you’re supposed to do.”

“You want me to take you out to dinner?” The tips of Richie’s ears heat and he can’t possibly be asked to keep the grin off his face. “You’ve seen me eat in public.”

Eddie smiles, rolls his eyes, thank god. “I just wish… it was, an option. I… nevermind.”

But Richie gets it, he does. Two dudes going out to dinner, even as friends, might raise eyebrows in shitty ass Derry. But… but… 

Somewhere else.

They might be able to do just that, somewhere else.

It’s something that he’s been toying with for a bit, and now’s as good a time as any for him to bring it up with Eddie. 

“What if, over February vaycay, we drive down to Boston?”

Eddie blinks, surprised. “Your car is going to make it to Boston?”

Richie shrugs; the more he thinks about this, the more excited he feels. They can pull this off; they can  _ totally _ pull this off. “Or I’ll borrow my dad’s car, or we’ll take Amtrak from Portland, whatever. Just… it’s cool there. It’s not… like it is here.”

He looks dubious—little slivers of wrinkles notched in against his eyebrows—but like he’s right on the verge of agreeing. “How’dya know that?”

“My cousin Denise goes to BU, and she… doesn’t like guys. And it’s cool. She talks about it all the time in front of her parents, mostly to piss them off, which it does, but… I asked her about it and she said that in Boston, they’re more, I don’t know, like a  _ real _ city. And it’s diverse and shit and people don’t care.”  
  
  
  
Richie steps up into Eddie’s personal space and for a moment, Eddie tenses, but Richie’s parents are still in the kitchen, there’s no reason to hide. “We can say we’re looking at schools,” Richie murmurs. “Like, Harvard and shit. We can even schedule tours or whatever, but… I’ll be able to hold your hand.”

“Yeah?” Eddie breathes, a little starry-eyed. “Ma’s not going to want me looking at schools out of state…”

“Then we’ll make up some other shit! Like we always do! It’ll be… it’ll be good. I can ask Denise if we can stay in her dorm, or we can save money for a hotel room or whatever. Come on, road trip with the promise of a fancy dinner with my guy.”  
  
  
  
Eddie sighs, but Richie presses. Now that he has the idea in his head, he’s not going to let it go easily. “Lemme take you on a date, Spagheds.”

“I can’t believe we have to go four hours away just to get a meal together,” Eddie grumbles, but then says, “Alright, yeah, let’s do it.”

Richie actually, vocally whoops and then steps in to press a sloppy kiss on Eddie’s cheek and Eddie giggles but shoves him away. “Thank you,” Richie whispers.

“Shouldn’t I be thanking you?”

But Richie just smiles at him, over the moon elated that they’ve just planned something that feels like a really fucking big deal, actually. “Pleasure is  _ all mine _ .”

Richie’s mind wanders as they pull on snow pants and heavy jackets. If he can swing it, maybe he can have a few days alone, in a different city, with Eddie. Maybe if he plays his cards right, he can ask his mom to book him a hotel room, too; she won’t think anything of it, just that he doesn’t want to be all up in Denise’s business the entire time he’s in Boston. 

And maybe if they have a hotel room...

His heart rate increases exponentially at the idea that he and Eddie can exist, together, as they are, out in the world. He can barely breathe with the endless possibilities fracturing out in front of him. 

He doesn’t notice that Eddie is geared up and ready to go until a frigid gust of wind smacks him in the face. “Jesus christ, it’s cold.”

“It’s a friggin blizzard, dumbass,” Eddie calls back over his shoulder, looking too cute in Richie’s old snow pants that he’s had to roll up and tuck into his boots. His fluffy bomber hat is tugged down so hard that Richie can barely see his eyes and his gloves make him look like a tiny hockey goalie. It takes all of Richie’s very-limited supply of self restraint not to tackle Eddie into the nearest snowbank and kiss him all warm.    
  


  
The snow is heavy, and it takes them the better part of two hours to get the driveway completely clear. Eddie puts down the salt and Richie puts down the sand and then they both collapse into one of the sizable snowhills they’ve erected. Richie can feel the sweat rolling down his back and he squirms at how uncomfortable he is.

“Not gonna… be able to… move tomorrow…” Eddie grunts, his eyes closed, cheeks pink, face tipped up as drifting snowflakes touch and then melt on his skin. Richie thinks he must be in a dream, he must be in some alternate dimension because for the umpteenth time in twelve hours he feels like he’s going to blow apart, atom by atom, with the force of what he feels.

“Not after what I’m gonna do to you,” Richie says, deflecting his softer thoughts in favor of something crass.

But Eddie doesn’t respond how Richie expects him to, doesn’t tell him to fuck off, or that he’s an idiot. Instead, Eddie’s eyes peel open and he smiles up at the sky before turning his attention to Richie. “Sure,” he says slowly, “Sure Rich.”

He pushes himself off of the packed snow after a moment and heads towards the house and Richie is left to watch him go, wondering, again, what the hell is going on in his head. Eddie is for sure better at reading him than he is at reading Eddie, and he supposes he could ask him what’s going on…

“Rich, what the hell, come on!” Eddie calls, and he’s already pulled his hat off, sweaty hair sticking up in every direction.

_ God, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

_ Cute, cute, cute.  _

They toss in a frozen pizza and chit chat with Maggie and Went, and after they have their fill of pepperoni and peppers, they head back upstairs to shower, Maggie reminding them that they’ll probably have to go out later to clear the drive again. 

Once inside Richie’s room, Eddie starts stripping off his sweatshirt and that’s it, Richie can’t take it anymore. “Gotta kiss you,” he says and Eddie laughs.

“Okay,” Eddie agrees and flings himself back onto Richie’s bed, bouncing with the force of it. 

And then Richie is on the bed, draping himself over Eddie and Eddie reaches up and sinks his fingers into Richie’s absolutely disgusting hair, and they’re kissing. Quick little sips turn into longer, more lasting kisses and Richie is relaxed and happy. He really, really shouldn’t hope for any more than this, right? This  _ should  _ be enough...

It’s only two in the afternoon, but Richie would be happy to climb under the covers with Eddie right now and just drift off. But Eddie squeaks when Richie nibbles at his ear, and Richie’s blood shifts. Opening his thighs, Eddie invites him in, and Eddie holds him close as Richie takes control of the kissing. It’s a slow meander of lips and tongue, and Richie’s just this side of hot under the collar. 

His brow pricks with sweat, and Richie can feel the heat coming off of Eddie too, and know he’s just a few moments away from having Eddie throw on the breaks, and so he saves him having to do it. “You should go shower,” Richie says against his mouth and then pulls back, so thoroughly pleased with how pink and well-kissed his guy looks.

Eddie’s arms flop out to his sides and he’s relaxed and happy and jesus, if Richie could keep him like this…

“Okay,” he sighs, pops up and dots one final kiss on Richie’s lips before grabbing his stuff and bounding from the room. 

Collapsing onto the bed, Richie pushes his face into the pillow Eddie had vacated, and breathes. His gaze pulls over to the wall next to the bed, where he’s tacked and taped photos of his friends.

He peels up a flap of a photo of Bill and Mike playing Twister, and fingers the old photostrip, accidentally commemorating he and Ecddie’s first kiss. He’d loved Eddie even then, Richie realizes, had loved him when they were nine, before he knew what it all meant. 

Shifting over onto his back, he folds his hands on his stomach and lets his mind drift. It’s silly, and it’s stupid, but he imagines he and Eddie renting an apartment somewhere, he and Eddie going to a fancy dinner, he and Eddie lying side by side in  _ their  _ bed in _ their _ home, somewhere far, far away from Maine. 

The niggling thought that he and Eddie have an expiration date tries to shove its way in; they’re going to graduate high school and they’re going to go their separate ways and then what? They call each other every night? They write? They buy cheap bus tickets and visit one another on weekends?

Richie would be willing to do all of that, would be willing to do a lot more than that if it meant any of his imagined futures with Eddie became  _ real _ . 

God, he hates when he gets like this, can’t even be happy for an hour without reminding himself that life, that the world, is absolute shit, and happy endings aren’t real. 

But then Eddie is pushing back into the room, his dirty clothes folded neatly in his arms, looking fresh and pink. Richie just stares as he goes about putting his things away, watches the way he moves and shifts, tries to commit it to memory. 

Just because.

Just in case. 

He thinks about it some more when he’s lathering up, getting deep into his psyche in a way that’s really only possible when in the shower. 

There are times in the quiet and in the dark that Richie wants to believe that anything is possible. It’s not a super hard sell, sometimes, due to the batshit fact that ghosts and demons and the undead apparently exist in Derry, and if that’s allowed to exist, maybe actual, real happiness—the entire fucking other end of the spectrum—could be within reach. If a demon clown could exist for centuries, it might stand to reason that it would be possible for a guy like Richie Tozier to be happy with Eddie Kaspbrak. 

Logically, that would make sense. That wouldn’t be  _ insane  _ to think. 

But he doesn’t know how to have this without dark thoughts looming, without waiting for the other shoe to drop, and how can he not? He knows that the things that his classmates have said about him aren’t true, not really. He’s not bad or diseased or mentally ill because he loves his best friend. But those sorts of things leave a residue on his mind, tacky and gross, and sometimes it’s really difficult to unstick himself from self-deprecation and self-hate. 

But he hadn’t defeated a psycho, supernatural force for nothing, and he knows he shouldn’t be living his life scared like he is. What would have been the point of any of it if Richie was still scared, and over something as hugely important as allowing himself to be happy?

And Eddie makes him happy, right down to his core, happy in his  _ soul. _

There’s a brief knock and then door creaks open and Richie pauses, hands full of conditioner. “Eds?”

“Gotta pee, and I swear to fuck, you gotta stop calling me that,” he says and Richie falls back against the wall of the shower, thinking again, just how intimate they are with one another. It shouldn’t be something he thinks about, and he knows that. He’s seventeen and these are really, really adult thoughts. They’re thoughts that married people have, they’re thoughts that people in _ real life _ have.

_ Maybe this is real life, _ Richie’s mind supplies, clear out of nowhere. Wouldn’t that be a trip…

He hears Eddie washing his hands—the CDC recommended twenty seconds—and then he sneaks back out, leaving Richie to finish up.

When he gets out of the shower, his gaze is drawn to the mirror where Eddie has left him a perfectly-drawn heart in the condensation of the mirror. The letter ‘R’ big and bold in the center.

Richie feels like he’s going to cry.

Richie feels like he’s going to run out of the house, screaming.

Richie feels like he can’t hide this anymore.

Knows he can’t hide it anymore.

Fuck, he’s going to ruin everything but he has to… he has to acknowledge it. Eddie  _ has _ to know. 

Tousling his hair with a towel, he hastily scrubs down his body and then pulls on his clothes, still damp. With one last look at the heart drawn on the mirror, he wipes it carefully away, lest his parents see it. 

The walk from the bathroom to his bedroom is only about fifteen feet, but it feels like miles. His heart pounds, blood rushing in his ears, and though he’s just come from the shower, sweat beads on his forehead. Nausea grips him for a moment—is this how it’s supposed to feel? Is this normal?—and then recedes as he pushes open the door to his room. 

“I know, don’t bitch at me,” Eddie clips immediately when he hears the creaking of the wood, his physics book cracked and his head dipped towards his notebook. “This is stressing me out, I have to work on it at least a little and it would be really helpful if you could actually help me with this vector bullshit because…”

But he trails off.

Richie hasn’t spoken at all since entering the room and that is very… not Richie. 

Eddie turns, eyes flitting to meet his, and his expression drops. “You okay?” concern dripping from his voice, he stands and crosses the room. Richie nods—too fast, too manic—and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Yeah, you’re not convincing me, you idiot, what’s up?”

Richie swallows.

Swallows again.

Lets out a tiny groan and goes to swallow one more time, but his mouth is parched and he can’t. He can’t seem to start, doesn’t know what words to use.

Eddie’s eyebrows are steadily climbing up his forehead, his concern growing by the second. Better to put him out of his misery, Richie thinks and sips in a quick breath that’s not nearly deep enough to assuage any of his nerves. 

“I uhm, here’s the thing. Okay…” Richie begins and then pauses, bites his lip and reaches out to snatch Eddie’s hands in his own. “I. You…”

“Rich, you’re kinda freaking me out…” Eddie shifts from one foot to the other, gaze uncertain.

Richie shakes his head, glances up at the ceiling and spits it out. “I love you, okay? Or, I’m in love with you. However… you’re supposed to say it! I didn’t mean to.. I mean, I didn’t want to tell you, but then I just, I couldn’t not.” Richie ends on a shout, still staring at the ceiling.

There’s nothing but the faint howl of wind for several moments.

“Richie, you uh,” Eddie tugs at his hands. “Maybe want to look at me when you say that?”

He can hear his blood rushing in his ears; it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that he just… keels over dead, right here. “No?” Richie squeaks, but god, he can’t meet Eddie’s gaze.   
  
  
  
He can.   
  
  
  
Not. 

“No?!”

His hands are flapping at his sides, and he’s started to sweat, and jesus christ this is not how he pictured this going at all. “I just, you gotta, if you don’t say it too, I mean, I’m not going to freak out if you don’t, but I’m not  _ not _ going to freak out?”

Eddie laughs, low and sweet and tugs on Richie’s hands again. “Look at me, you asshole!”

Richie tilts his face back down, but his eyes are pressed tightly closed; god, he thought  _ feeling _ all of this was scary, but putting voice to thought is excruciatingly, debilitatingly terrifying. He forces one eye open, and grimacing, he forces the other eyes open, until he’s gazing at Eddie’s startlingly smiling face.

“You too, you absolute fuckhead,” Eddie says and then corrects. “I mean, yes, I… wow, it’s… this is  _ fucking scary _ , sorry. I love you too, in love with you, all of it,” Eddie rushes but he’s grinning, looks absolutely delighted to be saying the words.   
  
  
  
His cheeks are pink and he’s perfect. “It’s weird,” he continues on, swinging their arms between them. “To say out loud. After, like, knowing it and shit.”

“Yeah,” comes Richie’s pained whisper, because holy shit.  _ Holy shit _ . “Wait, sorry, my head is spinning?”

  
  
“Oh is it?” Eddie leans in and kisses him, deep and long and slow. “This helping?” he asks against Richie’s mouth. 

“You’re my best friend,” Richie says a little dreamily, his eyes still closed as Eddie kisses him again and again. “And I  _ love _ you. And you love me? Like?”  
  
  
  
“It’s super weird, but…” Eddie sucks in a breath and brings Richie’s body in tight, in a hug. “It’s been like this since I was ten, Rich.” His voice is small and a touch scared but Richie just hugs back tighter.  
  
  
  
Because really, _ holy fucking shit _ . “You know, me too, right? How the hell…” but he can’t finish his thought; he’s too busy feeling Eddie in his arms and marveling that somehow, in bumfuck, backwards-ass Maine, two boys who are best friends are in love with one another. For  _ real _ . 

Eddie tucks his face into Richie’s shoulder and it’s nice and sweet until Eddie’s lips rest against Richie’s pulse point and suck a little. “I kinda wanna,” he whispers against Richie’s skin. 

He pulls away, glancing up into Richie’s face with his big, bright eyes and asks, “You think Mags and Went are occupied?” The pitch of his voice is low and there’s something new in his gaze and fuck, Eddie can’t be implying what Richie thinks he’s implying. 

It’s been a year and a half since they got  _ together _ together, but aside from sticky fumbling resulting messes made in jeans, they haven’t really done anything more adventurous than half-assed, terrifying handjobs in Richie’s car.

Eddie untangles himself and goes over to lock the door to Richie’s bedroom. Richie’s parents don’t intrude on closed doors, It’s more privacy than a lot of kids get, and Richie is thankful for it.

Returning to stand in front of him, Eddie takes his hand and leads them the few steps to Richie’s bed. He lays down on it, and Richie clambers atop him and then they’re kissing, laughing, hands everywhere. 

“Eds,” Richie whispers, directly into his ear. Richie hand twitches at the waistband of his sweatpants but he doesn’t dare pull back the band. “Eddie?”

“Yeah,” he pants, chest heaving, and his hips roll, pushing his pelvis up into Richie’s hand and Richie short circuits. He’s never been this needy, never been this wanton, and it notches up the tension in Richie’s body.

“Holy fuck,” Richie pants back, presses his mouth to the space behind Eddie’s ear, another breath punched out of him when Eddie moans. “Eds.”

“Please,” Eddie keens, and Richie thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever heard, high and needy and at the end of his rope. “Please, will you touch me?”

“Touch…” Richie manages but he’s so fuzzy, can’t fight through the fog that’s overcome his brain in order to finish the thought. 

Eddie’s head slams back onto the pillow and his eyes blink open with a rude little huff. “My dick, Rich. Please, just…” His voice is pitched lower, has more intent, and jesus, Richie understands that tone somewhere inside of himself, somewhere primal.

And that, well. He knows intrinsically where this had all been headed when he reached down below the belt, but holy shit. 

Sex. Right. Abstractly, he understands how to do it; he’s read things and has seen things and it’s not like it’s rocket science. But. But. He hadn’t accounted for Eddie being so into it, being so wanting of him. It’s kind of mind-blowing in a way he can’t comprehend properly. “Really?”

“Really,” Eddie’s eyes shine and he bites his lip and looks so fucking cute and so fucking ready, much more sure of what’s about to happen than Richie is. 

What if he gets it wrong? What if he doesn’t do it properly? 

What if it’s bad, and what if it ruins things between them and what if Eddie never wants to do it with him again? What if it grosses Eddie out and what if it makes it too real, and, and, and. 

It’s not subtle, he’s freaking out really, really badly, and Eddie tilts his head up from where it’s on the pillow, adorable crease forming between his eyebrows. “You… is this not?”

Richie shakes his head and slams his eyes closed, forcefully. His hand presses in harder and Eddie gasps, startling. “Mixed signals, dude.”

“Sorry, I just… I’ve never done… this.”

“Uh, neither have I,” Eddie says, like it’s a no-brainer, like  _ who cares _ , and lightly places his hand over Richie’s. 

“What if I… do it wrong?” Shit, he feels like such an asshole, can feel the air leaving the room, can feel the boiling in his blood quiet. He feels his face do something funny and hates himself and shakes his head and god, he’s completely fucked this up. 

Eddie shakes him and then tugs at his hand and then uses his free hand to smack Richie lightly on the cheek. “Hey, idiot, just… anything is gonna be good, right?”

“Wha…” Richie can’t follow, he doesn’t get it.  
  
  


“You’re,” and it’s Eddie’s turn to smash his eyes closed. There’s a sweet flush that comes to his cheeks and he squirms beneath Richie, limbs pressing out, against Richie’s thighs that are caging him. “I couldn’t… do this, if it wasn’t you,” he says, so timid, so hushed.

“Oh,” Richie breathes, and yeah. Shit, yes, that’s  _ exactly it _ . He gets  _ that _ . Nerves sizzle through him and peter out, because, well, this is Eddie. This is  _ Eddie _ . His favorite person, his guy, the person he loves, so. It’s Eddie, and he wants to make him feel good, wants to make him understand just what he means when Richies says “love.”

Eddie smiles, half of his mouth curling in a way that’s sweet and something a little mischievous, too, and he melts, dips down and kisses Eddie, licking in, as his hand shifts, intentional. “Yeah,” Eddie says, encouraging, “yeah, please.”

Branches knock against the windows and they startle, laughing into one another’s mouths as Richie kisses and kisses and kisses him. 

When he moves his hand, it’s only to slide his fore and middle finger beneath the waist of Eddie’s sweatpants. It takes him a moment to slither beneath the taut waistband of his underwear, but once he does, he can feel the heat from Eddie’s prick, the coarse hair around his groin.

Richie is unbearably hard, harder than he’s ever been in his life, the type of hard that feels like if anything so much as brushed against his dick, he’d pop off. It feels  _ fantastic _ and a little desperate. He glances down, at his hand disappearing beneath Eddie’s waistband and nearly comes, right then. 

A few steadying breaths make him take pause and he stares down at Eddie, at his flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. 

“I wanna do this, you’re the only person I wanna do this with,” Eddie says encouragingly and then Richie’s hand is on him, wraps around him lightly and it’s like he’s jolted through with electricity, the way he flops on the bed. “Holy shit.”

“Good?”

“Hell yes,” Eddie grins and jostles up onto his elbows so that he can bite at Richie’s neck. “Oh my god, yes.”

And that snaps something in him; a rush of kinetic energy surges through him and he lifts up Eddie’s hips so that he can tug down his bottoms. Once he has them off, he dispenses with Eddie’s socks, because that just looks ridiculous.

Panting, grinning, and is back on his elbows, “Shirt off, I’m not gonna be the only one naked here.”

“And you love my rock hard abs,” Richie jokes as he tears at his shirt.

“I like your chest, Rich,” Eddie says bashfully and flops back down on his back. 

With his shirt off, he realizes how chilly it is in the room and tugs at the edge of his quilt, willing Eddie to get beneath. “Wouldn’t want you to get pneumonia, Spaghetti.”

Eddie groans, tosses an arm over his face and frowns. “Two seconds ago you had my dick in your hand and now you’re making me think about  _ pneumonia _ ?  _ Really _ Richie, I swear to god, you’re the worst, and-”

But Eddie’s made an excellent point, and so Richie dips under the covers and wraps his fingers around Eddie again. It’s dry and an awkward angle and he reassess, moving the pad of his thumb over the tip of him, thrilled when he finds wetness there.They’ve gone so far, have done so much but they’ve never gotten  _ here _ .

This is something different. Having Eddie touch him, look at him as he’d shuddered apart had been actually life-altering. But this was something else entirely. There was a bed and a lock on the door and a lack of clothing that had Richie’s heart hammering and his stomach flipping.

He throbs, stifles a groan and wishes he hadn’t gone through his hard-won stash of lubricant before there had been a fucking blizzard predicted.

But again, it’s as though Eddie reads his mind, because he’s smacking Richie’s hand away and bounding from the bed, bare-assed. Richie presses his glasses onto his face quickly, watching wantonly as Eddie and his tiny behind unzips a pocket on his duffle and proceeds to toss a small tube at Richie.

It’s medical grade.

Of course it fucking is.

Richie can’t help it, he bursts into laughter. “You lift this from the hospital?”

Eddie’s face immediately goes red, “You complaining, asshole?”

His laughs stutter and trip over one another, but Richie shakes his head. “Wouldn’t have expected anything less from you, Spaghetti,” and he opens his arms, beckoning Eddie back to bed. 

Eddie launches himself at him, and the rest of his nerves scatter away, as Eddie laughs into his neck, still bare from the waist down. “Can I take this fuckin’ shirt off?” Richie grunts as Eddie presses hips lips and teeth against his neck. 

“Gonna take your pants off, stud?” Eddie’s thighs spread further and they press more closely together. 

“I can’t believe you said that,” he screeches and rolls onto his back, ridding himself of his jeans and underwear with one, chafing tug. 

And then they’re starting at one another, wide-eyed and grinning. 

“I wanna,” Richie says and reaches for Eddie’s hip as he brings the quilt over their bodies. “I wanna… do…”

“Anything,” Eddie says quietly, solemnly and dear god he loves him  _ so _ much. 

“Can I um,” Riche begins and inclines his head towards Eddie’s waist. “I want to.”

“Anything, Rich,” he says again and then kisses Richie, something slow and sweet that transitions to something filthier when Eddie reaches down and skirts his fingers over Richie’s dick.

Richie pants into his mouth, hips canting, “Yeah, okay.”

Without further thought, he grins at Eddie and dives beneath the quilt, leaving Eddie to bark a laugh and an overwhelmed, “Shit.”

Yeah, he’s never done this before but god, does he want to, and the mechanics can’t be too difficult. And even if he has to keep fucking with them, his glasses are staying on for this particular adventure. There’s a bit of light filtering in from the gaps in the weave of the quilt, and his heart almost stops when he takes Eddie in hand again, and Eddie twitches.

With a bravado he didn’t know he had, Richie leans in and presses the flat of his tongue against Eddie, not taking him fully into his mouth, just letting him rest against him. 

“Okayholyfuck,” Eddie breathes out, one word and his hands skitter beneath the blanket to find Richie’s hair. He’s waiting for a tug, put Eddie just pets at him, haphazardly, and the sweetness of the gesture has Richie opening his mouth and taking him in. 

His entire body goes taut and he lets out a weird little screech and Richie pops off of him for a moment, sticking his head out from under the blanket to see Eddie with his head slammed back against the pillow, his fist in his mouth. 

God.

He’s made Eddie feel like that.

He’s made Eddie  _ look _ like that.

He wonders how else he can make Eddie feel and ducks back in. He can’t take all of Eddie at once, but that’s okay, uses his free hand to wrap around the base of him and stroke, gently as his mouth adjusts to his size. He doesn’t suck, not really, just moves his lips and tongue around, getting Eddie wet enough that Richie can slide easily.

When he does suck, when he takes the head of Eddie’s dick in his mouth and gives a little squeeze, Eddie keens and pants, his hands slipping around the curve of Richie’s ears as he bucks up. “Sorry, sorry,” Eddie says quickly, but there’s nothing to be sorry for.

Richie loves it, loves that he’s able to do this to Eddie with just his mouth, and so he redoubles his efforts, touches Eddie with his lips and tongue, trying to mimic the way he likes to touch himself with his fingers. Presses the tip of his tongue to the ridge just beneath the head and listens for Eddie’s response.

It lights Eddie up.

Jesus, he can’t believe they’ve never done this before. 

There’s the taste, but it’s fine, he doesn’t mind it if it’s making Eddie feel like  _ this _ .

He hunkers down, shoves an elbow onto the bed next to Eddie’s thigh and really goes to town. Richie is pretty far gone himself, and angles down, his pelvis grinding into the mattress to relieve some of the pressure. After a moment, he feels something slide up against the skin of his arm and realizes that it’s the lubricant that Eddie had thrown at him and he gets a massively great idea.

Richie grabs it up and pulls off of Eddie, popping his head back out once again.

“My god, Richie, my god,” Eddie is babbling quietly, flush high on his cheeks and Richie grins proudly.

“Can I try something?” he asks, panting.

“I told you, anything,” Eddie’s eyes are bright and excited and trusting.

Richie is so, so, stupidly, sickeningly in love, and Eddie—Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, germaphobe extraordinaire—is trusting him with  _ anything _ . “Cool.”

He gets back under the covers, and after a moment of fumbling with the small tube, he’s slicked up. “If you feel weird… or want me to stop or whatever-”

Richie begins but he’s cut off by Eddie’s growl. “I’m not going to say  _ anything _ again, asshole,” and that’s more than enough for Richie to go on. 

He has to work on touch more than sight, and he trailed his fingers down, cups Eddie in his hand and rolls him gently. Eddie sighs and his hands find Richie’s hair again and then Richie takes a breath, steels himself and reaches even further, his fingers bumping up against Eddie’s rim.

“Oh, oh god, okay,” he stutters out, voice tight.

“You good? You okay?” Richie asks, completely still. 

There’s a beat of silence where Richie’s sure he’s fucked up but then he realizes Eddie’s not speaking because he’s nodding feverishly, and  _ that _ does something to Richie. He’s managed to render Eddie speechless. 

Fingers wiggling, he slips right up against him and presses around, against the rim, meandering lazily, testing different types of pressure, listening to the way Eddie’s voice pitches, the way his breath stutters and gasps. 

He realizes his ability to multitask through a haze of arousal and scoots forward, placing his mouth back on Eddie’s dick. It’s sloppy and imperfect and his hand feels like it’s going to cramp but Richie has never felt anything as big as he feels right now, he’s never, ever felt this good. 

When Eddie bears down on him, Richie takes the initiative. With a bit more fumbling, he manages to slick up again and presses into the loosened muscle gently, listening intently for any sign of distress. But Eddie just presses against him, gasps a surprised, “Yes!” and Richie’s index finger slips in, just past the first knuckle.

They both still. 

“Oh my god,” Richie slurs and drops his forehead onto Eddie’s thigh.

“You’re,” Eddie gasps, “You’re… in me.”

Richie’s entire plane of existence shifts on its axis. Honestly, he’s shocked he’s not freaking out. He’d been so caught up in wanting to make Eddie feel good, in making Eddie understand how much he loved him, that he hadn’t really had the presence of mind to process…

_ Oh my god. _

_ Inside of Eddie.  _

“Fuck,” Richie groans and gets a little dizzy, a little faint. But he puts his mouth back to work, gently moving his finger. Eddie shifts down once again and Richie speeds up, feels Eddie’s body tightening around him as he squirms and gasps.

Richie shouldn’t be surprised that it takes no time at all to get him right to the edge. 

“I gotta,” Eddie croaks. 

Richie wants to look everywhere, all at once, at Eddie’s dick, at his face, at his own finger disappearing inside of him, but Richie just takes a breath and calms himself. 

He won’t be proud of the fact that he pulls back and sputters when Eddie comes, and he won’t be proud that he wipes his wet face on his boyfriend’s thigh before peeking his head out from under the covers.

What he will be proud of is the blissed out look on Eddie’s face, and the fact that he doesn’t complain at all when Richie dots a kiss on his lips, because he’s too sated to care that Richie is covered in his come.

“Holy shit,” Eddie whispers after a few moments filled with heavy panting, coming to a bit. He goes to sit up and then flops back down. “That was…”

“Yeah,” Richie says, shoving his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and curls himself around Eddie’s body and doesn’t ever want to let go. He wants to stay here, in this perfect little moment, for the rest of time. 

Instead, Eddie stirs, and curls into Richie’s side, his face in his neck. First it’s a kiss and then it’s a bite and then Eddie is coming alive, sliding his body along Richie’s side.

“Always wanted to say ‘I love you,’ when I touch you like this,” Eddie says and then curls his fingers around Richie, startling a gasp out of him. “Now I can.”

“You can,” Richie slurs and moves to places his hand lightly over Eddie’s forearm as he works. God this is amazing and incandescent and he can’t believe that Eddie loves him back. 

After a moment, he mutters an exasperated “Fuck!” confusing the hell out of Richie and Eddie dives down into the tangled covers, reappearing after a moment with the tube of lubricant in hand. 

“Brilliant!” Richie beams and tries for a British accent, but he’s too keyed up and it fizzles out.

Eddie wraps his hand back around him, and it’s slicker, tighter this time, with more confidence. It feels better than anything Richie has ever felt; with the simmering, soothing knowledge that Eddie loves him— _ Eddie loves him _ —and that Eddie loves him enough to touch him like this. 

His thumb slides over the head of Richie’s dick and Richie goes all taut; Eddie tucks his face back into the junction between shoulder and neck and starts dropping sweet, little, sucking kisses there, his hand moving almost in time with them.

Eddie is gentle about it, which is just so nice, and Richie has to keep reminding himself to open his eyes and watch what’s being done to him, watch his best friend completely unwinding him, because he wants to remember this for the rest of his life. 

“You feel really, really good,” Eddie says into his skin and dear god, who knew  _ that _ would be sexy?

His vision goes a little blurry and his heart is probably about to beat right out of his chest, and Eddie squeezes his dick and says “I love you, Richie,” 

He’s kind of surprised that that’s what does it, but then he’s not, because it’s been Eddie for years now. It’s strange, how he feels rooted to his body but somehow floating above himself as he comes, and he’s so safe and so loved and so deserving and holy shit, he feels tears prick at his eyes as a groan wrings out of him and his hips stutter and cant with the force of his orgasm. 

A breath shudders out of him, and then another and then there are tears sliding down his temples and into his hair.

What the hell?

Richie cries and cries, as the aftershocks course through his body, and Eddie holds him through it, pets his hair, kisses his cheek. When he has the presence of mind to push up his glasses swipe at his eyes, he opens them.

Just in time, too, because Eddie is staring down at the mess he’s made on his stomach with interest and Richie very nearly loses his entire mind when Eddie reaches out and skims a bit onto his finger. He’s vaguely skeptical, but his guy, his Eds, puts that finger in his mouth— _ puts Richie’s come in his mouth _ —and makes a face like he’s sampling it and-    
  
  
  
“Holy fuck, dude!” Riche says and swears his eyes are bugging out of his head, but Eddie just tests it on his tongue, shrugs and crumples back against the mattress.

Richie waits for his brain to catch up with what’s just happened. 

Side by side, hands entwined, they stare at the ceiling.

The weather continues to rage outside. 

“God,” Eddie says eventually, throat croaky, unused, and he clears it with a cough. “Holy shit I just had sex,” his voice is far-off and breathless, like he’s in another world, like he doesn’t mean to say this aloud. “With my best friend.”

And it feels awkward. Not wrong, not bad, just, off. “C’mon man,” and Richie gets it, he knows what it is. Sniffling a little, he sighs with the rightness of it all. This was what people wrote poems about, it was what every long song on the radio was about; this was _ everything _ . “That wasn’t just sex.”

Eddie turns to look at him and when Richie processes the look on his face—eyes big and shiny—he gathers him up. “I believe that’s what the ladies call,  _ makin’ love _ .” And he pulls a voice because he can’t deal with the way his stomach flips and how vulnerable and raw and fucking blessed he feels. 

“God, how would you know what the _ ladies _ call it. Never call it that again,” but Eddie says it quietly, reverently, and Richie knows that he’s feeling the exact same thing. 

Eddie hugs him back fiercely, places a kiss against Richie’s throat and Richie thinks “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” to any power that might be listening. 

“It’s probably a dick move after sex but…” Eddie sighs after awhile, and peels himself off of Richie with a grimace.

“No, go....brush your teeth oh my god! And shower, get thine filthy self clean,” Richie sits up and then presses himself over Eddie one more time, dipping in to kiss him. “Thank you,” he says.

Eddie smiles brightly up at him. “I love you.”

“Fuck Eds, that’s the best,” Richie says and collapses onto his side of the bed, grinning, bursting with happiness.

“Fuck you, don’t call me that,” Eddie laughs as he pulls on his clothes, frowning at the stickiness.

Richie is a bit sleepy, and he drifts while Eddie showers. He’s sort of surprised how  _ different  _ he feels. His entire life, up until this moment, seems like scaffolding, all building and leading him to this very place. His heart has been growing and changing and making room for everything he feels about Eddie, and now he can keep him there, _ know  _ him there. 

Maybe, just maybe, happy endings do exist.   
  
  
  
Maybe they exist in Boston, maybe somewhere else, but he knows that he’s not going to let this go. If the world doesn’t want them to be together, the world is going to have to contend with Richie Tozier in love. And as it turns out, if the fire in his chest is any indicator, Richie Tozier in love is a fucking force to be reckoned with.

He takes his turn in the shower, lazy and relaxed, warm and happy. When he returns to the bedroom, Eddie has changed again and is curled upon his side of the bed, looking towards the door.

“Your mom came in to remind us we should go out again before the sun sets,” Eddie says and then yawns and Richie’s heart, for the umpteenth time, does a somersault. 

“We’ve got some time,” Richie says, and yawns too, grabbing up the lubricant from the bed and tucking it into his drawer. With any luck, they’ll need that later, Richie thinks delightedly. “Nap with me.”

Richie climbs into bed and tosses his arm over Eddie’s waist and it’s simple and easy and perfect.  _ This _ is a happy ending, Richie realizes. This, right the hell now was going to be one of many. 

“I can’t believe you let me get my jizz all over you,” Richie sighs contentedly, dreamily and Eddie squirms against him, tossing an elbow into his ribs.

“Shut up about it motherfucker, or I won’t let you do it again!”   
  


  
“Your pillow talk could really use some work, Eds.”

“ _ God, _ you’re a dipshit.”

Richie hums, tugging the covers up over their hips. “Yeah, but I’m  _ your _ dipshit, and you  _ love _ me.”

“Ugh,” Eddie grumbles, and shimmies back towards the warmth of Richie’s body.   
  
  


“You are,” Eddie yawns, “And I do.”  
  
  
  
Outside, the wind picks up again.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> -My thanks to stitchy for the pep talks and what have you.  
-Yes, I know Al Kaprielian was a meteorologist in New Hampshire and not Maine but. Whatever.  
-Ugh, Allen's is disgusting. Never drink it. Even if it's the only thing anyone brings to the bonfire. 
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://scullyseviltwin.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/scullyseviltwin) if you feel so inclined.


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